A good friend of mine is a runner. (She shall be referred to as "Crazy Running Girl" as she has one of those unique [but beautiful] names where, if you ran into her completely out of context of my wacky blog world, and you heard her name, you'd be like, "Oh, Quinella! You're the runner!" and how embarassing is that? Of course, I initially was calling her just "crazy girl" but she added the Running there in the middle, because apparently that's the only kind of crazy she is, and really? who am I to argue?) Crazy Running Girl just ran a half-marathon and recorded a new personal best time of just under 2 hours 30 minutes. And this is why I call her crazy. Because seriously? I can't think of anything, other than sleeping or eating, oooh eating, that I'd willingly do on a weekend for 2 hours and 30 minutes without stopping, Nothing. Most certainly not running. Unless someone was chasing me. And trust me when I say, I'd drop dead well before the 2:30 mark.
And therein lies my problem with exercise. It's not something you can do at the last minute. I excel under pressure. I live for the wild ride at the end, the night before a paper is due, the day before the product ships. I am in my element.
Exercise is not that. Like these biofeedback exercises I'm supposed to be doing? Yeah, I was supposed to start 1 week ago, I see the therapist in 1 week, and I somehow have to now cram 2 weeks worth of exercises into 1 week. Well, there's a sort of pressure there, but I'm not convinced that my quick flick fibers (oh my God, don't ask) will really be up to the task.
I know, I know, I should set goals. And work toward them. Real goals, like this would have been a good one: Don't look like a fat cow at your sister's wedding. Which is next week. Wherein even my seven month pregnant other sister will be considerably slimmer than me. But see, there's no pressure. Until, you know, this week. When I have to go shopping for something to wear and will most likely end up in a muumuu. And there's no exercise that can be done to spare me of this fate, not now.
So I'll be the one in the pictures dressed in something that looks suspiciously like a bedspread, with a pinched look on her face, as she crams in some last minute flexing of those quick flick fibers.
Amy vs. Bookcase
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